


Time Has Brought Your Heart to Me

by gutsandglitter



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: But mostly fluff, Character Study-ish, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, short hand-wavy ambiguous sex scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsandglitter/pseuds/gutsandglitter
Summary: If Aziraphale were honest with himself, he didn’t feel that he deserved Crowley’s love. He felt worthy of God’s love to be sure, with all of its associated terms and conditions. But Crowley loved him unconditionally, beyond all measure and reason.  One wrong move and he could fall out of God’s favor forever, but he felt reasonably certain that there was nothing he could do that would ever make Crowley fall out of love with him. Somehow, that was a much more terrifying prospect.After the nightingale sings in Berkeley Square, Aziraphale and Crowley address the six thousand-year-old elephant in the room.





	Time Has Brought Your Heart to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from A Thousand Years, because of course it is. Look I'm not proud, but it had to be done.

Aziraphale had once heard a literary critic say that the best story endings were always “surprising, yet inevitable.” He hadn’t agreed with her at the time, for he had never really been one for surprises. His favorite books were long, grand tales that were always more about the journey rather than the destination: _Middlemarch, Brideshead Revisited, One Hundred Years of Solitude_. (He also had a soft spot for David Sedaris, though this was more because his wicked sense of humor was quite similar to that of a certain wily serpent.) Aziraphale liked literary tradition. He believed that stories should be neat and tidy and have clearly-defined endings which tied up any remaining loose ends with a big red bow.

He supposed this preference stemmed from the fact that his own life was so messy, particularly where Crowley was concerned. Case in point: the Apocalypse That Wasn’t. Nothing about that had felt neat and tidy to him in the slightest, and he suspected that if anyone were to ever write a book about the whole ordeal he wouldn’t be able to make it through the first chapter. 

But it was all over now, and that was what mattered. The day after the Apoca-Let’s Pretend That Never Happened saw Aziraphale and Crowley both alive and not-discorporated, which was certainly something worth celebrating. Also worth celebrating was the fact that Gabriel was no longer breathing (so to speak) down Aziraphale’s neck, so he didn’t bat a blond eyelash at the idea of using a “frivolous” miracle to open up a table at the Ritz. 

As the afternoon wore on, he and Crowley proceeded to get drunk on obscenely good champagne, and neither seemed to have the slightest intention of sobering up. They laughed, they (well, really just Aziraphale) cried, and they recounted the same stories they had been telling each other since the beginning of time.

And then without preamble (though one could argue that their last 6000 years together had all been preamble) Crowley leaned forward and caught Aziraphale’s earlobe with his teeth. 

The angel, who had been in the middle of telling a long-winded anecdote involving Saint Francis of Assisi and a rather impish pair of jackrabbits, gasped. The story died on his lips, and his train of thought came to a violent, screeching halt. 

Contrary to popular belief (one which had likely been disseminated by Gabriel and Michael), Aziraphale was not unfamiliar with the ways of the flesh. He had been living amongst humans for over six millennia for Heaven’s sake — if curiosity hadn’t gotten the better of him, boredom likely would have. Not to mention the fact that God is far more sex positive than many of her more vocal followers would have you believe, thankyouverymuch, and She’d never bothered to lay down any edicts regarding angels and carnal behaviors. So yes, there had been some experimenting. He’d slept with Lord Byron (really, who hadn’t?), Cleopatra, and Aristotle, and once spent a particularly memorable night with both Gilbert and Sullivan. He’d also lain with his fair share of saints, most notably Saint Teresa of Ávila (Pride is a sin, but it’s difficult not to feel a little bit smug when you send someone into an ecstasy that ends up being immortalized in marble) and a few kind and gentle humans whose names history had long since forgotten. In short, he’d been around. 

But this was Crowley. His Crowley. His arch-nemesis, his partner, his friend. He had long since given up on denying his feelings for the demon, no matter how un-angelic they might have been. Angels were not supposed to covet, not supposed to crave or pine or long for. They were supposed to love, that was true, but in a universal and benevolent sort of way. His love for Crowley was so much more than that, so much deeper than that. Though a tiny, treacherous part of his brain had fleetingly wondered if their relationship might change once their respective superiors turned their backs, he was shocked to receive such a sudden and direct answer.

Crowley tugged on his earlobe once, almost experimentally, before releasing it, though he didn’t go far. 

“Come home with me, angel,” he growled. His voice was low, thick with the promise of sin, and it sent a violent shiver down Aziraphale’s spine.

The angel opened his mouth and immediately closed it, opting instead for a quick nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak just yet, wasn’t sure what might come tumbling out if he allowed himself to admit that he’d been waiting to hear those exact words for so many millennia. 

Though judging by his smirk, Aziraphale suspected that Crowley already knew.

*****

Aziraphale had been to the flat several times over the decades, usually to water the plants while Crowley was off on extended “business trips”. He had always found the brutalist style to be gloomy and devoid of light and love, so he’d tried to get in and out as quickly as possible. Now he had a certain amount of appreciation for it. The shadowy halls were exciting, full of promise of the unknown. The statue, which once seemed vaguely menacing, looked different in the fading twilight, and now called to mind a less-violent scenario, which caused a flush to spread across Aziraphale’s cheeks.

As they started down the long hall Crowley reached out and caught Aziraphale’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Aziraphale was grateful for this gesture and gripped his hand like a lifeline. It was familiar and comforting, something to ground him and keep him from becoming completely overwhelmed by this recent turn of events. His sobriety had returned to him at some point and brought with it his ever-familiar anxieties, but the warmth of Crowley’s hand in his went a long way towards keeping them at bay.

They crossed the threshold into the dark, sumptuous bedroom. Aziraphale had never been in this room before, but he was somehow unsurprised by the fact it was so much cozier than the rest of the flat. The bed was enormous and plush, draped in a deep red velvet bedspread. It looked terribly inviting. Tempting, even.

For a moment, Crowley hesitated. He had removed his sunglasses at some point, and something akin to doubt flickered in his golden eyes.

“Angel,” he murmured. “I…” he trailed off, looking pained. Where moments before he oozed sin and swagger, he now seemed to be shot through with a strange fragility, a brittleness that threatened to shatter under the lightest of touches. He looked down at their joined hands and blinked rapidly, almost as if fighting back tears. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

Sometimes, Aziraphale forgot. 

To the outside observer he would seem like the soft one, with his easy, gentle smile and hair like spun sugar. His favorite sound in the world was that of a teacup finding its place in a saucer, he loved old books and well-worn tweeds and had mastered the art of baking flawless French macarons. He was an angel, with delicate white wings and an innate tenderness towards all creatures great and small. Softness came with the territory, one would suppose.

Whereas everything about Crowley seemed sharp, from his lanky frame to his wicked tongue. He could walk through miles of hellfire without batting a slitted eye, and could strike fear into the hearts of warlords and houseplants alike. He was the original bad apple, a slithering force of fiendishness who was the mastermind behind all manner of unpleasant earthly experiences — from genital warts to airline ticket fees, from foot-binding to Tide Pod Challenges, and everything in between. The adjectives typically associated with Crowley — bitter, prickly, vitriolic, and so forth — were all razor-edged and built upon suppositions of sharpness.

But Aziraphale remembered how they both came into this world — he, bearing a flaming sword and a sense of righteous duty; Crowley with a soft underbelly and a desire to free the First Man and First Woman from what he saw as the shackles of ignorance. He remembers how he himself had stood back and watched as a child from Nazareth was raised like a lamb for slaughter, while Crowley has been the one to take pity on the poor carpenter and show him the world, bringing comfort to him in his final days.

In some ways Crowley was like a burn victim, all raw nerve and no skin. His emotions ran so much deeper than anyone Aziraphale had ever met, either human or supernatural. When he was angered, cities turn to ash. When he mourned, he spent centuries in bed. When he loved...

Well.

Aziraphale supposed he’d known all along, to some degree. Demons don’t usually make a habit out of saving angels’ corporeal forms from harm, and Crowley had saved his dozens upon dozens of times. Sometimes he was frightened by the ferocity of Crowley’s love for him. The demon had walked across consecrated ground, had driven his beloved Bentley through hellfire, had even put himself at the mercy of Heaven, all for him. 

If Aziraphale were honest with himself, he didn’t feel that he deserved Crowley’s love. He felt worthy of God’s love to be sure, with all of its associated terms and conditions. But Crowley loved him unconditionally, beyond all measure and reason. One wrong move and he could fall out of God’s favor forever, but he felt reasonably certain that there was nothing he could do that would ever make Crowley fall out of love with him. Somehow, that was a much more terrifying prospect.

But seeing Crowley standing before him so open and exposed, wearing his tattered heart on his too-tight sleeve, forced Aziraphale to swallow some of that fear. He felt protective over him, and knew that he would move heaven and earth (or hell, or wherever else might need moving) to make Crowley happy. 

He had been so brave for Aziraphale so many times. This time, Aziraphale could be brave for him.

He gave Crowley’s hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. He then reached up with steady, unshaking hands, and cradled Crowley’s face. The demon closed his eyes and let out a soft hiss.

“Angel,” he said, voice cracking. 

Aziraphale hummed. “My dear, dear Crowley.” He closed the distance between them, and pressed a tender but firm kiss to Crowley’s lips. 

Crowley made a soft keening sound and surged forward, grasping Aziraphale’s lapels in a white-knuckled grip. Aziraphale gave as good as he got, pressing back into Crowley and running his fingers through his hair. It was too much and not enough all at once, he felt dizzy from the overwhelming currents of arousal and relief that flooded through his angelic equivalent of a bloodstream, but still he wanted more.

Crowley made quick work of their clothes (Aziraphale would later be touched when he saw that his had been neatly folded on top of the bureau) before gently pushing Aziraphale down onto the bed. There were a few minutes of fumbling, as there always are, but eventually they fell into a rhythm that seemed to work for them both. It was awkward and inelegant to be sure, but neither of them minded. After all this time they were finally here, and that’s the only thing that mattered.

“Angel,” Crowley panted, unable to form complete sentences. “My angel.”

“Yours,” Aziraphale replied. He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and pulled him closer, ever closer. “Always yours.”

The angel and his demon, the demon and his angel. They belonged to each other, just as they always had. No masters, no plans, no reason to serve anyone besides themselves; this was the freedom they had always been seeking, since the day Crowley hissed in Eve’s ear and Aziraphale laid down his flaming sword. 

Crowley came with a soft cry, and Aziraphale followed soon after. The demon immediately grew soft and pliant, curling into Aziraphale’s side and tucking his face in the crook of his neck. 

They lay in silence for several minutes, relishing the closeness they had denied themselves for so long. Crowley was warm to the touch, just a few degrees more than an average human or man-shaped angel, and Aziraphale found that lying in his embrace felt a lot like basking in a late-summer sunbeam. He trailed his fingers down Crowley’s back, tracing nonsensical patterns and shapes on his bare skin.

Eventually, Crowley broke the silence. “That was…” he trailed off. He seemed to still be panting a bit, though he had no need for air. “That was…”

_Surprising yet inevitable_ , said a small voice in the back of Aziraphale’s mind. It was true, there was no doubt about that. This was not how he had expected his night to go, though now that he was here it seemed silly to have expected anything different. But he had only ever heard that phrase used in relation to endings, and this was by no means an ending.

“A beginning,” he said, finishing the half-sentence that had been left hanging in the air. He pressed a kiss to the top of Crowley’s hair. “My dear, that was just the beginning.”

**Author's Note:**

> The "surprising yet inevitable" thing comes from a piece of writing advice one of my professors gave me in college. He was a total dick who would be absolutely horrified by the idea of being quoted in a m/m fanfic, and I am a very petty person by nature, so here we are.


End file.
